


unfinished ASOIAF AUs

by heart_nouveau



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Alternate Universe - Dare Me AU, Alternate Universe - Devil Wears Prada Fusion, Alternate Universe - John Tucker Must Die, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Orange is the New Black Fusion, Cheerleaders, Comedy, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Gen, M/M, Snippets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-12
Updated: 2017-01-12
Packaged: 2018-09-16 19:23:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9286316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heart_nouveau/pseuds/heart_nouveau
Summary: Exactly what it says on the tin. All are AUs that I was well underway writing, and then was unable to finish for various reasons. Each chapter is a different AU.1. Devil Wears Prada AU (Jon/Sansa; featuring Cersei, Sansa, Margaery, and more)2. John Tucker Must Die AU (Theon/Robb with background Sansa/Margaery)3. Dare Me AU (Cersei, Sansa, and Margaery)4. Orange is the New Black AU (Sansa/Margaery, Sansa/Jon)





	1. she fills up every corner like she's born in black and white (The Devil Wears Prada AU)

**Author's Note:**

> Well, it's clear-out-the-drafts season! These stories are composed of fully written scenes. I don't actually consider them drafts - what has been written is fully finished. I just lacked the motivation to fill in the blanks, so to speak. Enjoy :)

##  **She fills up every corner like she’s born in black in white**

###  **A _The Devil Wears Prada_ AU.**

  

A gorgeous girl pushed open the glass doors of the waiting room, towering in her T-strap heels. Her face was like the Botticelli women Sansa remembered from her art history class in college, with creamy skin, rosy cheeks, and a little rosebud mouth. Her long brown hair curled and fell away from her face almost to her waist. She wore a tight green brocade dress that looked better suited for a cocktail party than an office. Sansa thought she was stunning.

The girl looked down at her iPad, marked in a case that read _Royal_ , and looked around the reception room. “Sansa Stark?”

“Here,” said Sansa, standing up with her best friendly-yet-competent job interview smile. It had always served her well in the past. “Hi,” she said warmly, trying to ignore the nerves, coming over and extending her hand.

The girl ignored Sansa's proffered hand, and instead gave Sansa a slow, pointed once-over. Clearly displeased with what she saw, her pretty face began to crinkle as if she smelled something bad.

Sansa was beginning to feel extremely underdressed.

“Well, here you are!” the girl said finally, sounding pinched. “Follow me.” She turned on her heel and walked through the glass doors, moving so fast in her towering heels that Sansa had to speed-walk to catch up.

“I’m Margaery,” said the girl finally, once they reached a large white Plexiglas desk. She turned to look at Sansa again, looking no less impressed than before. She pushed her lips out and pressed them tightly. “I’m Cersei’s assistant.”

“Who…” Sansa wasn’t sure how to ask the question. It didn’t seem like she was here for what she’d been expecting.

A woman sailed through the doors, a statuesque blonde goddess in daggerlike stiletto heels. She was the most beautiful and terrifying woman Sansa had seen in her entire life.

 

“She won the CFDA Rising Designer award two years ago and since then has been selling out every store that stocks her clothes. Not only that, she’s dating Khal Drogo,” Margaery said in her ear. Sansa’s mouth dropped.

“You mean, _the_ —”

“Yes, _the_ Khal Drogo, the New York Jets player.” Margaery leaned back, and Sansa could see her smirking slightly.

Daenerys Targaryen swept out, dressed in a flowing maxi skirt and a sheer turquoise chiffon halter-top that left almost nothing to the imagination. Petite and stunning, her violet eyes glowed. She looked like a fairy tale creature, and was stunningly beautiful. At her feet came three—

“Are those… iguanas?” Sansa whispered, confused.

Margaery cut her eyes sideways, sounding offended that Sansa would even ask such a stupid question. “ _Yes_ , it’s kind of her thing. Daenerys is against all use of animal products; all of her clothing is produced vegan and cruelty-free; and she makes a point to keep exotic pets to emphasize animals’ uniqueness and use for more than just materials. All of which you would _know_ if you had read the first thing about the latest crop of designers.”

Sansa shut her mouth.

“Hello, Cersei,” Daenerys said in a gentle voice with a hint of a British accent. She nodded at everyone else politely. “Welcome, I'm so happy to have you here. Here’s the sample of my summer-spring resort collection. I hope you like it.”

Out came a procession of models, each dressed in a version of flowing gowns, and then

At each look, Daenerys looked expectantly up at Cersei. Sansa glanced surreptitiously at Cersei’s expression. Varys leaned forward and said in her ear, “She’s approving or disapproving of each look. See the nod? The neutral look?”

“And now,” the petite fashion designer said, with a smile, “here’s the look I’ve been working on for a while. This will be the pièce de résistanceof my resort collection.”

Cersei stared at the dress a long moment, and then turned her head away, just slightly.

There was a collective intake of breath as the entire room seemed to stifle their gasps. Daenerys’ face crumpled, and her giant violet eyes seemed to brim with tears.

“Oh, no,” said Varys. Even he sounded a little appalled. “Oh, that’s _terrible_.”

“What?” Sansa asked frantically. “What does that mean?”

“It means,” Varys paused dramatically, “ _Definitely not_.”

Daenerys wilted. “Thank you for your input,” she managed to say in a little voice. Cersei nodded, sniffed impassively, and rose. Everyone else immediately jumped to their feet and turned to follow her out. As she left, Sansa turned to see the designer flocked by three dark-haired assistants, dabbing at her reddened eyes with a Kleenex.

“She’s going to have to restructure her _entire_ collection,” Margaery said, sounding horror-stricken.

“Just because Cersei shook her head?” Sansa said, stunned.

Margaery rolled her eyes. Her voice dripped with disdain. “You _really_ don’t get it, do you?”

 

“Yes, Mom, everything is going great at the new job,” Sansa lied into her cell phone that Sunday morning, pacing around the apartment in the early morning sun. “Yeah, it’s wonderful.”

Jon rolled over in bed, squinting at her sleepily. His lips curled up in a smile, his curls squashed up on one side of his head. She stifled a smile (God, her boyfriend was so cute) and turned away, listening.

“Oh, I’m glad Bran is doing well with his new physical therapist.” She paused. “Well, why _don’t_ you let Rickon try out for the youth soccer team?  It sounds like a good idea, Dad’s right. That’ll stop him from bouncing around the house all the time.”

Jon rolled over. “Come back to bed,” he mouthed. She shook her head scoldingly at him and put a finger on her lips.

“Uh huh. Yes, I know, Mom. I know. Okay, um… I have to go Mom. Yeah, I’m going to church.” Another lie. She didn’t even know where the nearest church was in this city. “Okay. I love you. Talk to you soon. Bye.”

She hung up and sat heavily down on the bed. Jon pulled her down to flop down next to him, which she did with a laugh. “You’re terrible!”

“I know,” he said demurely, snuggling up. “Wanna go get brunch?”

“I could go for some French toast,” Sansa answered, smiling.

“Great,” Jon answered, with the eagerness of a foodie who had made a discovery on Yelp. “Because there’s this place that makes the best peanut butter and bacon waffles _ever_.”

 

The next day at work, Sansa immediately regretted her waffle choices when Margaery gave her the usual severe once-over.

“Hm,” Margaery said at last, with a dismissive flick of her glossy hair. “Go to the fashion closet. Cersei is doing a shoot.”

 

“Your mother is worried about you,” Ned Stark said, looking soberly at her over the dinner table. “You don’t call as much as you used to.”

Sansa bit her lip. “Look, Dad, I’ve just been really busy… I’ll try to call her more, it’s just that the job has been pretty demanding and—”

Her dad put down his fork and reached across the table, putting his hand over hers. “How is this job going, really?”

Sansa’s stomach dropped. She really did not want to have this conversation right now. “Dad, it’s great. It’s just… You know, in the first few months of any job, they have to test you out, see how you can handle things. And this is only for a year—once it’s over, I can have my pick of starting writing positions at almost any publication in the city. It’s a great opportunity.”

Ned’s gray eyes looked concerned. “Sure. I can't help that think that, well, fashion seems a bit frivolous. And it never was your area of interest, Sansa, not after you stopped being a teenager. I just don’t want to see you unhappy. You’re working as an editorial assistant?”

“Actually, I'm just an assistant. But in this economy, you should be glad I even have a job.” Sansa tried to say it lightly, but it was too true to joke about. “Look, everyone has to work their way up from the bottom. I’m lucky to be working in my chosen field, and to be getting paid! You know there are magazine interns in New York who work almost as many hours as me without any payment at all?”

Her father looked concerned. Sansa realized that this wasn't the most comforting thing she could have said and shook her head. “I’m fine, Dad. Besides, it’s only a year. And thanks for bringing up a sore subject,” she teased. "My 'fashionable' teenage years. Ugh, I'd almost forgotten..."

Her dad grinned at her. “There was a time when I could have sworn you lived at the mall. After all, you were there more often than you were at home.”

“I do still get nostalgic for Cinnabon sometimes,” Sansa mused. “Not to mention some wicked Orange Julius cravings. Hey, speaking of junk food, I know the _best_ pretzel vendor here—you know, like we always used to get at Robb’s hockey games back home? I’ll have to take you.”

They were crossing the street after taking in a performance of _Billy Elliott_ when her phone rang.

 

Margaery swept over with a woman whose hair was even redder than Sansa’s. _There’s no way that can be natural_ , Sansa thought, looking at the dark blood-red of the woman’s hair. The woman was also dressed entirely in red, which on another woman would have looked clownish. But this lady managed to, to quote Tim Gunn, the only fashion figure Sansa actually liked, “make it work!”

“Sansa, this is Melisandre,” Margaery said, sounding bored out of her mind.

“Mel,” corrected Mel, in a heavy Eastern European accent. She angled her head and stared at Sansa. “So this is the new Margaery?”

“Yes,” Margaery said.

“Oh.” Mel continued to stare. “Well, nice to meet you,” she said, dipping her head with a barely-concealed smirk. The two of them went off.

Sansa passed by and heard the two of them giggling sharply. “I _told_ you—” “I _know_ —I can’t believe what she was _wearing_ —”

Her stomach tightened.

That was _it_. She had not spent years in journalism school, working her ass off, to come and be laughed at by a bunch of catty bitches over something as trivial and superficial about what she wore. No more. She was going to quit and get a job in a _real_ magazine where she could actually write about things that mattered!

She stormed past the art direction design room and paused when she saw Varys there.

 

On Friday she had a rare night out with her sister Arya and her hipster boyfriend Gendry, who had made the trek all the way up from Brooklyn for dinner and drinks in Midtown. Her good friend from Northwestern, Myranda Royce, joined them.

“How’s school?” she asked Arya, who rolled her eyes expressively. “Ugh. I have to finish the second draft of my thesis proposal and it’s _killing_ me.” Arya was completing a peace studies degree at Gallatin at NYU.

“It’s killing _me_ ,” Gendry cut in in his blunt, soft-spoken way. “She stays up all night and crashes during the day. It’s like living with a nocturnal animal.”

“Well,” said Sansa, beaming, “I have a few things from work… I mean, if you’re interested.”

Myranda raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

“Well,” said Sansa, reaching into the shopping bag beside her and lifting out a Marc Jacobs purse, “here’s a sample that Cersei no longer wanted—”

Myranda let out a squeal and grabbed for it. “This is limited-edition! They only made 500 copies in this color!” She held the purse up to her face and rubbed her cheek reverently against the seal gray leather. “How the heck did you get your hands on this?”

Arya raised her eyebrows. “Lame.”

“Oh, well,” Sansa said casually, “then I guess you wouldn’t be interested in… floor passes to the Mets game next Saturday?” She fanned out the tickets, raising her eyebrows.

Arya leaned across the table so fast that Gendry had to grab her around the waist so she didn’t knock anything over.

“OHmygodthankyou,” Arya said in one breath. “This is like, everything I’ve ever wanted. You don’t even know!” She darted out of her chair and crushed Sansa in a hug. Sansa started laughing, until it became hard to breathe. “You’re welcome—Arya, you’re crushing me—”

“So it seems like the job _does_ have a lot of perks,” Jon observed, a little wryly.

“It does, baby.” Sansa leaned over and gave him a kiss. “And don’t think I forgot about you.” She pulled out an envelope. “Vouchers for William-Sonoma. You can get that chin-oz strainer you’ve been going on about for so long.”

Jon’s face lit up in a smile. “Chi _nois_ ,” he corrected her, beaming. “And now I can make the best pureed soups ever! Thank you!”

Sansa was leaning in to kiss him again when she heard her phone go off in her purse. “Darn, I have to get that,” she said, unzipping her purse and pulling out her phone. Her stomach dropped. “Oh my gosh, it’s Cersei.” She answered immediately, turning away from her friends. “Hello? Yes, Cersei?”

 

When she passed Margaery’s desk, she saw that Mel was visiting again, this time wearing a heavy gold-linked chain around her neck and a billowy red blouse that looked like Catherine Malandrino. The two of them actually stopped their conversation and did a double-take at the sight of her.

“Well,” said Margaery, after a stunned second. “It looks like _someone_ went shopping.” But her voice was empty of its usual venom, and she sounded shocked instead.

“You look good,” Mel said, nodding at her in acknowledgment that was almost nice. Sansa felt a swell of warm pride as she walked by.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally written in 2012-3.
> 
>  **Some notes on the casting of this AU:**  
>  Andie – Sansa  
> Miranda – Cersei  
> Emily – Margaery  
> Nigel, Art Director – Varys  
> Andie’s boyfriend – Jon (they’re not related) – a sous chef in training  
> Writer guy Andie cheats with – Jaime  
> Miranda’s husband – Robert (their marriage ends during the story)  
> Miranda’s bratty son – Joffrey (he wants the next book of GoT… too meta? He wants to know how it ends!)  
> Andie’s friends – Arya, Gendry, Myranda Royce – Sansa’s friend from college  
> Andie’s dad, who visits her in NY – Ned  
> Runway Magazine staffers – Melisandre, the Sand Snakes, Arianne Martell, Loras, Renly, Jeyne Westerling  
> Fashion designers – Daenerys Targaryen; Ygritte; Asha Greyjoy, whose designs would put Ann Demeeulemester to shame; Oberyn Martell; Arianne Martell  
> French fashion designer who’s Miranda’s rival – Elia Martell  
> Other – Petyr as a gross creeper executive at the company
> 
> -Sansa gets the internship through connections of her Aunt Lysa, who works for the magazine’s parent corporation.


	2. i'll keep you my dirty little secret (John Tucker Must Die AU, Theon/Robb)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unwritten scenes are indicated in italics.

##  **I’ll keep you my dirty little secret**

###  **A _John Tucker Must Die_ AU (aka Robb Stark Must Die)**

 

 

Theon Greyjoy was used to being invisible. When you were just an ordinary teenager, especially one living in the shadow of your terrifying, man-eating older sister, you got used to it—fast. Not to mention the fact that you had to move every six to eight months to get out of the way of your weird, religious extended family? Yeah, it was best to stay invisible. Theon got it.

He knew he could keep his head down, work on his studies, read his philosophy books. His only goal was to get into a good college where he could finally put down some roots, find a school that would give him some decent financial aid. Until then, he could deal.

He’d just moved to another town, yet another school, and he knew the drill. He was working at his new job, a busboy in a fancy restaurant in town, when he saw Robb Stark for the first time.

Robb Stark was absolutely beautiful. He seemed to suck all the air out of the room, and even drew attention away from the stunning dark-haired girl on his arm. Theon didn’t realize he was staring until Jeyne Poole, the waitress who was in his grade at his new high school, swung over to rest by his elbow. “He’s gorgeous, huh?” she said with a matter-of-fact sigh.

Theon didn’t know what to say to that. Guys weren’t supposed to stare at other guys the way he’d apparently been staring at Robb, he knew, so he tried to cover it with a cough and a gruff nod. “Uh—yeah. Not bad, if you’re into that kind of thing.”

“That’s Robb Stark,” Jeyne informed him, setting down her tray of dirty plates. “Star of Westeros High’s soccer team, all-around high school _god_.” As an afterthought, she added, “And that’s Margaery Tyrell with him—she’s head of the school newspaper and TV station.”

She moved off to take the table’s order, and Theon pretended not to watch as Robb smiled up at Jeyne (and she gave him a painfully bright smile in return). Later, when he went to clear their appetizer plates, he almost held his breath. He was used to being ignored, but Robb glanced up at him for a split second, flashing a smile from under those long lashes. He had perfect reddish-brown hair and the most beautiful lips Theon had ever seen in real life.

“Thanks, man,” he said, and Theon’s heart actually stopped for a moment. _Oh my god_.

Robb looked back down at his date, all sweet attention and gentle smile as she continued a long involved story as she flicked her long wavy hair over her shoulder, but the damage has been done. The spell had been cast. Theon was completely, utterly in love 

Theon didn’t care if Robb was the most popular guy in school—not that it mattered, because there wasn’t a chance in hell that Robb would ever actually speak to him again. All that mattered was that Robb came into the place where Theon worked, and Theon could silently stare at his beauty until Robb went home. If anyone caught him looking he could just pass it off that he was waiting to take the plates of their table. Or something.

 

 

But the next week Robb returned to the restaurant, this time with a different girl on his arm—basically a high school version of Beyoncé (“Jeyne Westerling,” his coworker Jeyne informed him, as they gazed towards the center table from the server station, “the head of the soccer cheerleading squad”). And when Robb came back on Friday, he had a _new_ date—tiny and petite with long white-blond hair, wearing a hippie dress and a lot of jewelry (“Daenerys Targaryen, vegan animal-rights activist”). Robb sat at the same table every time (classy), and the way he treated all the girls made it clear that they were all on dates. The girls clearly thought that they were all incredibly special.

“So he has three girlfriends?” he probed Jeyne, who nodded avidly. He shrugged slightly. _The guy’s got game._ _And great, he’s not just straight… he’s extra, mega-straight. And also kind of a cheating jerk._ “How does he even pull that off?”

“Well,” Jeyne began calmly, “he tells them his father won’t let him date during soccer season. He makes sure to date girls from different social cliques so that none of them gossip to each other and find out.”

Theon looked at her, a bit stunned. “How do you know all of that?”

Jeyne’s eyes filled with tears. “I don’t know, it’s just a guess,” she managed, before bursting into tears and pushing her way into the kitchen. He could hear her wailing even through the swinging aluminum door. 

 _Damn, Stark._ Talk about a heartbreaker.

 

 

The back door of the house Asha had rented for them swung open, and then slammed shut with an ominous crash. “Theon!” Asha yelled, and Theon wearily got up from where he was seated at the dining room table finishing his calculus homework.

His sister was leaning against the kitchen counter, smoking a cigarette. She leaned over and pushed the window sash up as Theon came in, and scowled at him. “What are you doing?”

“My homework, Asha.”

She nodded, tapping her cigarette against the windowsill. “Qarl is coming over later. Are you going to be here?”

Theon shrugged a bit wearily. “I guess, yeah. I don’t have work tonight, so—”

“You don’t have any friends here yet?” his sister interrupted. She peered at him, her eyes narrowed.

Theon shrugged again.

“I’m worried about you, Theon,” his older sister declared, reaching into the fridge for a beer. She glanced up at him. “You want one?”

“No, thanks. I’m doing homework, remember? And… some people are just invisible, Asha,” Theon said, not wanting to talk about it. “It’s not like it’s easy to fit into high school. Especially since we’re _always_ fucking moving.”

Asha scowled at him, pushing up one sleeve of her ripped gray T-shirt. “Listen, it’s not my fault it’s hard to keep down a steady job. D’you want our psycho family to catch up to us?”

Theon swallowed hard; it wasn’t the first time they’ve had this conversation.

“That’s right.” Asha leaned over and punched him on the shoulder. “Now chin up, bro. You can do it. High school is tough, I get it—but real life is harder.”

 

 

Nothing would have happened, maybe, if Mr. Baratheon the gym teacher hadn’t gotten sick and the sub had to combine gym classes. Theon found himself in a brand new gym class. He sucked at volleyball, a benefit of being completely uncoordinated—which also made him terrible at all sports except track. That, of course, really helped his social life.

He was so busy not getting hit in the face by the ball that it took him about half an hour to realize that he actually _knew_ three of the girls in the class with him. That was a surprise, because he hardly knew anybody at his school despite having gone here for three weeks.

The substitute teacher called a time-out for a water break, and the confident-looking brunette (Mari? Maggie?) stood with her hip jutting out by the water fountain. “I’m sorry I didn’t call last night,” she confided in her friend. “But you’ll _never_ guess where I was—I was on a date with _Robb Stark._ ”

Her stage whisper seemed to echo throughout the gym—and on the opposite side of the net, Jeyne Westerling straightened up to her full height. Her eyes narrowed, and she stalked over to Margaery like a tiger.

“Excuse me, what did you just say?”

Margaery dimpled up at her, her face the picture of innocence. “I was just talking about my date last night—”

“With Robb Stark. Yeah, I heard you, but I thought I must have misunderstood. ‘Cause Robb Stark is _my_ boyfriend, okay?”

Margaery’s eyes narrowed. “I’m sorry… what do you mean?”

Suddenly the two girls were pushing each other and shouting.

“Oh my god, you guys, peace and love!” Tiny Daenerys Targaryen was trying to push the two girls apart. “Don’t fight, there is no need to perpetuate woman-on-woman violence in this already violent world!”

Jeyne got in another shove. “Then try telling this bitch to step off my man! Robb is _mine_ , okay?”

Daenerys’ violet eyes narrowed. She batted a piece of platinum-blonde hair out of her eyes. “Wait a sec—did you say _Robb Stark_?"

Jeyne rounded on her. “Yeah, what are you, deaf?”

“Excuse me, _no_ , but you must be severely _challenged_ because Robb Stark is dating _me_.” Daenerys looked significantly less peaceful now.

Theon couldn’t help himself. He stepped forward. “God, can’t you just see he’s just playing _all_ of you?”

All three girls turned to stare at him, identical expressions of shock and disgust on their faces. “Um, _who_ are you?” Margaery said after a moment, her voice dripping with scorn.

Just then the substitute teacher came bolting over from the other side of the gym, a panicky look on his face for not having avoided chaos in his class. “What is going on here? No fighting in gym class! You all get detention! Including _you_ ,” he added, pointing at Theon.

“Wait, I didn’t even—” Theon started to protest, but it was no use. The sub just pointed a warning finger at him, and Theon suppressed a sigh. _Just fucking great. Just my luck._

 

 

“What the fuck, Theon?” Asha exploded, brandishing the detention slip like she’d just found some girl’s underwear in his room (fat chance of that ever happening). “You’re supposed to be behaving, okay?”

“It seriously wasn’t my fault!” Theon protested, leaning against the kitchen counter. “There were these three girls in gym class, and they got into a fight because they’re all being cheated on by the same douchebag guy and I just—”

The doorbell rang. With a strangled shout of exasperation, Asha rolled her eyes and stalked off to answer it. Theon stayed where he was, frozen in the kitchen. But he jumped in shock when he heard Margaery Tyrell’s confident voice from the front door. “Hi! We’re looking for Theon—is he home?”

Theon bolted into the foyer. There was no telling what Asha might do when she was angry, confused, and confronted by a posse of teenage girls. Jeyne, Margaery, and Daenerys were standing on the front step, looking decidedly mismatched as a threesome. Asha turned to him slowly.

“Who are these people?” she said to him, her voice full of warning.

“They’re… my friends?” Theon answered, giving her a shit-eating grin. Asha’s face filled with irritation, and she gave him a warning eye.

“Can we come in?” Jeyne said sweetly, as Daenerys beamed up at Asha. Asha stared at all of them with distrust. “See, your—um—Theon helped us solve an argument today. We just wanted to thank him, and talk to him a little bit.”

“Asha,” Theon said, his voice dripping with sweetness, “I know you were worried about me making friends at my new school.”

His older sister stared at him with narrowed eyes, as if deciding whether or not to accept this excuse. “Fine,” she said at last. “They can come in.”

Theon turned to the three girls with a look of relief, and they beamed at him. “Come in,” he said, and they streamed in over the doorway with squeals of delight. Asha scowled and retreated to the kitchen. “Sorry about my sister,” he said half-heartedly. “Um, we can go up to my room, okay?”

“We brought snacks,” Dany cooed, pulling what looked like a bag of chips out of her woven shoulder bag, if chips and vegetables could have babies.

They flopped across Theon’s bed, pulling out packages of Oreos, Twizzlers, and chocolate from their purses. “So you live with your sister?” Dany said sweetly, examining all the surfaces in his room closely. There wasn’t much—he was a minimalist, and they’d only just moved in. She looked at the philosophy books stacked on his desk. Marxism textbooks sat on top of _das Kant._ “I like your room, it has good vibes.”

“Um, thanks?”

“Your sister is _hot_ ,” Margaery declared, stretching herself out across the bed.

Theon choked. “I think the word you’re looking for is terrifying.”

“No, I definitely meant hot,” Margaery said, wrapping her tongue around a Twizzler, and Jeyne rolled her eyes and cut Margaery off. “All right, bi-curious, let’s get down to business. We need to defeat this heart-stealing monster.”

“Heart-stealing monster?” Theon echoed. Then it hit him. “Wait, are you talking about _Robb Stark_?”

Jeyne rolled her eyes. “Obviously! Look, how did you know what he was like? Do you have a lot of experience with guys like that?”

Theon thought of his con artist sister, and the slippery guys she went out with. “Yeah,” he said at last, “I know his type. He always uses pet names so that he doesn’t mix up your real names?”

All three girls were staring at him. “Perfect,” Jeyne said at last. “I knew it—I knew you’d be able to help us.”

“You’ve got to help us,” Margaery said. “We want to bring him _down_ , and we need your help.”

“I’m usually against all animal violence—but I will make an _exception_ in the case of Robb Stark,” Dany said strongly.

All three girls’ eyes were gleaming as they looked at him. “Robb Stark is going _down_.”

 _Friends_ , Theon thought pathetically. _I could have friends_. On the other hand, Robb seemed so nice, so beautiful… but what did Theon know? He didn’t know anything about Robb Stark. And all three girls were staring at him like he was the answer to all their prayers. 

“All right,” Theon relented at last. “I’ll do it.”-

 

 

_**[Theon and the girls try to sabotage Robb by starting rumors and otherwise embarrassing him. But every time, Robb manages to turn it around and appear sympathetic. His popularity survives without a dent.]** _

 

 

“Nothing has worked,” Jeyne complained. “We’ve only made him _more_ popular than before.”

Dany was lying on Theon’s bed, staring moodily at the ceiling. Suddenly she sat up. “There’s nothing for it. We have to break his heart.”

“Well, how are we going to do it?” Margaery asked plaintively. “He’s already dated every girl in school.”

“Yeah,” said Dany slowly, “but not every _boy_.”

Margaery’s mouth fell open. “Oh. My. God. Dany, you’re a genius.”

“Okay, slow it down,” Jeyne said sharply. “What are you talking about? What’s so genius?”

Margaery looked around at everyone with a significant look. “When I told Robb I was bi, he was cool about it—like, _really_ cool. He said he’s never been attracted to a guy before, but he would totally be open to it if it happened.” She heaved a sigh. “It was _so_ sexy.”

“Uh…” Theon said slowly, with a chuckle so fake that it hurt, “wait, I… uh… I’m confused. Isn’t being gay… a bad thing? Like, not cool? No homo? Right?”

Jeyne rolled her eyes, “Oh my god, Theon, that is so 2007! Get with the program! It’s okay to be gay—more than that, it’s _cool_.”

Theon needed a moment to process. “So… you’re saying that we should find some random guy to break Robb’s heart?”

“Not just _some_ random guy,” Dany answered meaningfully. Suddenly all three girls were staring at Theon. Suddenly, he got it.

“I—I’m not gay,” Theon said forcefully.

Jeyne rolled her eyes. “Duh! Okay, whatever! That’s not the point. You’re going to _fake_ date him, so that you can _really_ break his heart. Score one against all womanizing creeps in the world.”

“Although there’s _nothing_ wrong with being gay, even if you were,” Margaery added, eyeing him with a knowing gleam behind her lip-glossed smile.

Theon coughed hastily, trying to mask the wave of alarm and fresh emotion that rose up in him at her words. Why was Margaery giving him that knowing look? Did he _look_ gay? Did he accidentally mention how beautiful Robb is? Did he sound too enthusiastic when the three girls were reminiscing about the perfect sculpture of Robb’s abs? Why was she looking at him like she could tell he was hiding his true feelings?!?

“Look, I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t want to make gay people look bad. It’s like when gay characters on TV are always evil, like Thomas on Downton Abbey. It’s a negative stereotype and bad trope.”

Dany looked impressed. “Wow, you’re really smart.”

“And I love Downton Abbey,” Jeyne added. “I watch it with my mom. She thinks Lady Mary is an evil bitch, though.”

Theon cleared his throat. “So won’t me fake-dating Robb and then… messing with him just look really bad? For all gay people?”

Jeyne put her hands in the air in an appeasing motion. “Okay, I hear you and I totally understand where you’re coming from. That said, you’re just doing this for revenge. This isn’t political. This is _high school_.”

“Come _on_ , Theon,” Dany pleaded, and finally he relented, thinking of Robb’s handsome, handsome face, and even more handsome… body. _All that could be mine. Well, sort of mine. Fake-mine._

“Okay,” he relented, sort of dragging out the last syllable, and all three girls shrieked and jumped on him at the same time.

 

 

They were prepping Theon for the start of Operation RSMD—Robb Stark Must Die. “You look panicked,” Dany said, perched in front of him. “Are you okay? Theon, do you have much practice with flirting?”

“Of course I do,” Theon said haughtily, “only… just with girls. Not with boys.” 

“Just play it cool,” Margaery advised Theon. "If you need practice with a boy, I could always ask my brother Loras..."

"That's okay," Theon said hastily. He'd seen Loras around school. He didn't need another hot guy to get confused over.

“Count to three in your head before you answer any of his questions,” Jeyne said. “He likes it when you play hard to get.”

“Okay, count to three,” Theon said, taking a deep breath and trying not to remind himself that he was preparing to flirt with only the hottest guy he’s ever seen. “Play it cool. Got it.”

 

 

Theon was the opposite of coordinated, which is why the thought of joining Jeyne’s soccer cheerleading team is completely terrifying. “It’s just lifting girls onto your shoulders and stuff!” Jeyne told him brightly—also terrifying, since Theon was kind of wiry and pretty strong, but definitely not a lifter.

But he managed to make it through at least one practice, only straining what felt like one shoulder. Following the plan, he was lingering afterwards on the soccer field when Robb sauntered over to Jeyne. “Hey, Jeyne,” he said, and Jeyne greeted him with a smile, sigh, and practiced eye roll. “So no hard feelings, right?”

“Come on, Robb,” Jeyne said with a little laugh. “I’m a big girl.”

Theon turned around from where he’s doing hamstring stretches. “Hey, Theon,” Jeyne called, giving a little wave with her fingers. He turned away, trying to look athletic and flexible but also hot and sexy. _Ugh, flirting is so hard. And my ass kind of hurts._

“Who’s that?” he heard Robb ask Jeyne.

“Oh, that’s our newest cheerleader,” Jeyne said airily. Robb snorted with disbelief, and Jeyne’s voice turned icy. “ _What_?”

“A cheerleader, huh?” Robb began to scoff. “But he’s a—”

Jeyne cut him off. “Robb, unlike _some_ boys I know, Theon is confident enough in his masculinity to do traditionally gendered sports like cheerleading.”

That shut Robb up.

“Now, maybe _you_ wouldn’t choose to fight gendered stereotypes, but can’t you respect Theon’s wish to do exactly that?” Jeyne prodded.

“No, I—uh, I really respect that,” Robb said, clearing his throat hastily, and Theon chanced a glance over one shoulder to see Jeyne smiling approvingly at Robb. “Like, uh, I get it.”

“Theon’s _so_ mature about things like that,” she said. “He’s really hot, too, don’t you think?” Before Robb could say anything, Jeyne charged on, “Too bad he’d never go for me. Isn’t that too bad?”

Theon winced. Jeyne was really laying it on thick. Unable to help himself, he angled his body so that he was leaning against the chain-link fence, watching the two of them out of the corner of his eye.

Robb laughed. “That’s crazy. Why the hell wouldn’t he?”

“Well… he’s like, really sexually sophisticated,” Jeyne said with a little sigh. She flicked her straight black hair over her shoulder.

“Really?” said Robb, a frisson of interest in his voice.

“Oh, yeah. He told me he’s attracted to people _regardless_ of gender.” Jeyne paused, and then delivered the kicker: “But I don’t know, Robb. He might just be a little over your head.”

That did it. Robb straightened, a defiant look on his face, and gave a carefree little laugh. “Okay, sorry to break it to you, but _nobody_ is over my head, Jeyne.”

Theon freaked and quickly turned around again, doing a few calf stretches. His brain seemed to freeze as he heard footsteps approaching. Then Robb Stark’s sexy baritone said in his ear, “Hey.”

Theon turned around slowly.

Robb Stark’s beautiful face was a mere two feet away from Theon’s own. His sun-kissed skin glowed with health, and he was smiling tentatively, almost shyly. _He doesn’t look like a douche. How can he really be such a douche?_

“Hi, I’m Robb. What’s your name?”

 _Count to three_ , said a faint voice in Theon’s head, but he didn’t really need the reminder since it took all of his concentration not to let his jaw drop open at the sight of Robb close up. _One… two… ugh, so hot… What comes after two again?_

Robb gave an embarrassed little laugh. “Sorry, dumb question. Jeyne told me—you’re the new male cheerleader on the squad, right?”

Theon counted to three in his head, then took a breath. “Yeah. I’m Theon.”

Robb held out his fist and Theon stared it for a moment before realizing what he was supposed to do. He lifted his own fist to bump against Robb’s. _I can’t believe I actually just fist-bumped him_. _Who does that?_

“It’s really cool,” Robb said fervently, “that you’re secure enough in your masculinity to do that. That’s really mature.”

Theon let out a short laugh, trying to sound cool and blasé. “Uh, thanks, man.”

Robb gave him a short, gratified smile. “Yeah.” He paused, and then shot Theon a heart-meltingly hot smile, one that must have been patented, it was so successful at charming girls and boys alike. “So, uh, you’re new and all—would you maybe want to check out this beach party that’s going on Friday night? Kind of lame, but…”

The girls had told Theon to be bold, to push the envelope, so he straightened up. “You mean like a date?” he tried, kicking his leg back to stretch his hamstring.

Robb only hesitated for a second. “Yeah,” he said, smiling at Theon flirtatiously, and Theon’s heart actually sped up. “Like a date.”

Theon told himself that it’s only part of an act as he let his eyes wander over Robb, as if appraising the offer and turning it over in his mind. “Sure,” he said, after mentally counting to three, “that could be cool.”

Robb grinned widely. “Great. I’ll pick you up at eight on Friday.” They exchanged numbers, and Jeyne met Theon’s eye from the sideline and winked broadly.

 

 

_**[Robb and Theon go on several dates, both in group settings and alone (including, from the movie: a beach party, an away game, and a romantic date on a boat). The girls try to spy on all of them, but at one date they're unable to follow. Robb and Theon are alone for the first time ever. Theon finds that he's actually falling for Robb, who is genuine and sweet one-on-one.]** _

_**Sex scene: Robb and Theon are messing around. Theon admits that he’s never done anything like this with a guy and Robb perks up, kind of excited that he’s Theon’s first. He hides behind layers of machismo and stuff first, but says, “Oh, that’s kind of cool. We’re the same.” He only says that after Theon asks if he’s ever sucked a dick before and Robb gets really defensive: “Do I look like I suck dick?” Theon says carefully, “It’s not like that’s a bad thing. I mean, it’s kind of the idea here.” Robb deflates, rubbing a hand over his face. “Oh. Um. Yeah, sorry. I just—it just seems different. Talking about it, the idea of it, and actually doing it.” They mess around, giving each other blowjobs and mutual handjobs, and both really enjoy it.** _

_**Later, hurt and confused, the girls confront Theon, who’s now having real feelings for Robb. Theon tries to deflect, but they realize that he actually likes Robb. There is a final school dance scene – the girls try to show a video where Theon is swearing to take Robb down, but Theon stops them before it can play. He gives a big Cady Heron-esque speech in which he confesses to fake dating Robb. Robb is so upset that he leaves the dance.]** _

 

 

Theon knocked on the door of the Starks’ house. Robb’s younger sister Sansa answered the door, and looked down at him. She was way tall for a sophomore. “Robb doesn’t want to see you,” she said coldly, staring down at him.

Theon shoved his hands in his pockets. “Yeah, I know. But I really need to talk to him. I have to explain.”

Sansa put her hands on her hips. “Explain what, exactly? How you fake-dated him for fun, so that everyone would laugh at him? Are you even actually gay?”

Behind her was the buzz of the TV in the front room. Then a familiar voice came from inside the house. “Sans, let him in. Let him at least explain himself.”

Theon looked up in surprise when a familiar face sidled up behind Sansa, wrapping an arm around the taller girl’s waist. It was Margaery, looking very comfortable with Sansa indeed. _Damn, that chick is a mercenary_. Margaery smiled at him, apologizing just a little bit with her eyes.

 _Yeah, she should be apologizing. It’s her fault that this got so fucked up_. No, Theon mentally corrected himself. Margaery and the other girls had set this up, but Theon was the one who’d gotten himself in too deep.

Sansa frowned and crossed her arms, but stepped back to let Theon in. “He’s in his room,” she said frostily. Theon nodded to her in thanks, then went up the stairs. As he left, the girls went back to the couch and cuddled up close, Sansa putting her arm around Margaery, who put her legs across Sansa’s lap as they settled back down to watch TV. As Theon looked back, Margaery caught his eye slyly and winked. She really did remind him of his sister.

He went slowly up the stairs, dreading any more awkward encounters with Robb’s family. If he ran into Jon, Jon might actually punch him out. Theon didn’t want to deal with any of that. Luckily, he didn’t run across anyone before coming to stop before Robb’s bedroom door. He had to take a deep breath and steel himself before putting out his hand and knocking lightly.

Robb’s muffled voice came from within. It sounded rough. “Mom, go _away_. I told you I don’t want to talk about it.”

Theon hesitated, and cleared his throat. His stomach was turning and he actually felt kind of dizzy. But he had to man up; there was no going back now. “It’s Theon.” Dead silence from the other side of the door. “I, uh—Look, I just want to talk.”

More silence, and then Robb said loudly, in a strangled way, “Fuck off!”

Theon bit his lip. “Robb, man, come on. Can I come in?”

“Fuck off,” repeated Robb’s voice from the other side of the door, not quite as loud as the first time.

Theon sighed, weighing his options as he shifted from foot to foot. He could give up now, and live with the guilty knowledge that he’d been a genuine asshole. Or he could do his best to explain things and smooth things over.

He put his hand on the doorknob. To his surprise, it opened, and he stood in the doorway of Robb’s room.

Robb was curled on his bed with his back to the door, wearing nothing but sweats and a white T-shirt. His head was buried in Grey Wind’s fur, and the dog was curled at the

At the sound of the door, Robb jerked upright, half-turning. “What the—I said don’t come in!”

Theon’s chest squeezed at the sight of him. Robb’s eyes were red-rimmed, his curly hair wild and going everywhere, but he was still gorgeous. It was clear that he had been crying, or sulking, or both.

“I mean… I’m sorry, but your door was open and I just wanted to, uh. Talk to you.”

Robb shifted until he was kneeling on the bed and patted his dog’s back. “Grey Wind, go! Chase him out of here!” The dog just lifted his head and looked sleepily at Robb. Robb gave an exasperated sigh. “Useless,” he muttered, sliding back onto the bed. With his back against the wall he stared reproachfully ups at Theon.

Theon cleared his throat. “Uh. Can I come in?”

“Well you’re already in, aren’t you?” Robb said mulishly. Theon took that as the most invitation he was going to get, and stepped inside, closing the bedroom door behind him. He sat down in Robb’s desk chair as Robb stared at him, warily and with a spark of something else in his eyes.

“What do you want, Theon?” Robb said at last, his voice thick. “Come to rub it in, or what?”

Theon swallowed, his throat jumping. “Look, I gotta—I gotta apologize, Robb. What I did to you was fucked up. I’m really sorry.”

Robb was quiet for a long time.

“It wasn’t my idea—not that it matters, at this point, but I promise it wasn’t—it was the girls’. They were really pissed at you for not treating them right, and I was just sort of there, and… I got caught up in it. It was wrong, I know. And I’m sorry.”

“What, and you like, went back to them after every time we hung out? Comparing notes, laughing at me?” Robb stared at him. “I mean, I believed you. I really _liked_ you. I never did anything like that before, but…”

Theon perked up. “Really?”

Robb’s voice seemed to raise an octave. “Yeah, I mean, I sucked your dick! What the fuck, man.”

“I never told anyone about that,” Theon said quickly. “And… damn it.” He rubbed a hand through his hair and sighed. “Look, maybe you won’t believe me. But I thought you were hot from the first moment I saw you. Do you remember that? At the restaurant?”

Robb bit his lip. “Yeah, I guess I remember.”

Theon felt hot inside, but went on. “You just had so many girls, and I figured… that was it. And I was new, didn’t have any friends, and the girls came up to me with this plan and I just—I was stupid. I got carried away. It shouldn’t have gone as far as it did. But I was always attracted to you. That part of it was real. I always thought you were hot.”

Robb wasn’t smiling, but it looked like he almost wanted to. “I thought you were hot, too.”

“What?” Theon leaned forward in his chair. “But I thought you were straight!”

Robb smirked. “For someone whose sexuality is supposed to be so advanced, you’re pretty narrow-minded about other people. I’ve had crushes on boys _and_ girls for as long as I can remember. Since James Karstark in the second grade.”

“Fuck, really?”

“I dunno. It just seemed like, you date girls, or you date guys. You can’t do both. I mean, some chicks can, like Margaery, but not guys. So I just started dating girls and I thought that was it.” Robb paused, shaking his head. “But when you came along, it was like… whoa. I didn’t expect to feel that way. And then to see it was all a lie, like—”

“Robb, listen. It wasn’t a lie. Maybe I did it for the wrong reasons, but it wasn’t a lie. I always felt that way about you, I just—I was just an idiot.”

“Okay, c’mere.”

Theon walked over to the bed, leaning down, and took Robb’s face in his hands. He kissed Robb tenderly, and then the kiss got a lot rougher when Robb reached out and put both hands on Theon’s ass, sliding them up Theon’s back under his shirt and jacket.

“Fuck,” Robb breathed. “I’d really like to do that again.”

Theon found himself smiling. “Okay.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally written in 2013.


	3. something dangerous (Dare Me AU; Cersei, Sansa, Margaery)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [_Dare Me_](https://www.amazon.com/Dare-Me-Megan-Abbott/dp/0316097780) is a 2013 novel by Megan Abbott. It's a noirish drama about teenaged cheerleaders, and will always be one of my favorite books.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "There's something dangerous about the boredom of teenage girls."  
>  ** _Dare Me_ , Megan Abbott**

##  **something dangerous**

###  **A _Dare Me_ AU**

 

It’s no day at all, some Wednesday, when Sansa first sees her and everything changes. A woman wears her finely edged beauty like a natural halo, attracting all the sunlight in the gym to her, sucking the light refraction off the waxed wooden floors.

Sansa is nobody when she first sees her.

There has been no real coach for years, not since Margaery joined the squad and dominated them all with ease, sweet and wicked in turn, leading by amazement and intimidation and the stalwart skills of Sansa as her second-in-command.

There is no stunt, no aerial jump that compares to the rush Sansa feels when she first sees the new coach across the gym. The fuzziness of her teenage confusion is narrowed, focused easily with clarity on this woman. Looking at her is like a clean, pure hit of adrenaline, or Adderall, if either of those things turned you on.

She have should known, then, that nothing will ever be the same. That this woman would pick her out of the lineup of girls clustered on the wooden bleacher benches, their gaggle of jewel-encrusted perfumed faces, mark her forever.

Margaery materializes at Sansa’s shoulder, warm breath in her ear. “Did you know she’s Robert Baratheon’s _wife_?” she says, just loud enough for every girl to hear. Dark-haired, almond-eyed Taena lets out a sharp giggle.

“He’s twice her size,” she says, as if it’s the funniest thing she’s ever heard. “And he’s so…”

 _Unlike her_ , they are all thinking. Principal Baratheon, the jovial, red-faced, ex-football star who always has a word or four for the pretty girls. He’s old friends with Sansa’s dad. She can always hear him coming when he visits their house, that booming voice, his heavy step. The two of them can finish off a six-pack in an hour, sitting on the back porch and telling stories of passes, tackles, kegs, wild parties.

He’s all pleasure, nothing like the hard, smooth lines of Coach C’s face, the firm set of her mouth. She is the picture of reserve. Ascetic beauty.

“Imagine them fucking,” says Margaery, and instantly that’s all they can see, flesh on flesh, hairy stomach, golden hair. Sansa recoils.

“That’s disgusting,” Alla says flatly, Alla their resident prude. Sansa agrees. She can’t imagine Coach that way; she seems too pure, almost divine.

“What? They did it enough to have three kids,” says Taena, who knows everything. Admiringly: “But who could tell?” That flat stomach beneath the white zip-up track jacket, smooth skin apparent even from across the gym. Marg rolling her eyes at this impressed tone.

Sansa is jolted with realization. “Oh…” she says, fighting to keep her face from burning. “So that means… she’s _Joff’s_ _mom_?”

Marg’s fingers skitter up her arm in a quick sympathetic draw. Conscious of her slip, Sansa rearranges her features, masklike. “Whatever.”

“He probably didn’t even tell her about you,” Margaery reassures, sympathetic and cruel. It hurts. Sansa’s _Seventeen_ magazine dreams, that magical first boy, the first _real one_ , the way his lips had tasted and the smell of his dad’s car, her rush of expectations. Her mistake to show that she cared, realizing too late that she had become nothing more than a punch line to his joke. It was months before she stopped fleeing down hallways when she saw him coming. Margaery has taught her to sneer at him now, not to cower, never to cry. But it still hurts.

Coach strides toward them. Up close, she’s even more radiant, gold and white, features as glowing and flawless as a Dior ad. Long legs, pristine white sneakers, all that blonde hair swept high and neat into a ponytail with nary a flyaway strand. A mouth as lush and unhappy as crumpled velvet. She is perfect.

Coach sweeps her eyes across them as if they are so unimpressive, so less than perfect, that she has no emotion to extend to them.

  
  


Margaery looks at Coach, a long gauging look. Sansa holds her breath.

 

 

After, she piles her hair in a messy knot on top of her head, zips herself into her warm-up jacket, navigating the sweaty, messy mass of girl bodies, trampled clothing, exotic flower-scented deodorant (orchid, mango, dragonfruit). Marg tugs her shirt over her head at the locker next to her, neon green sports bra showing through the low-cut armholes, facing the showers.

Surreptitious, covert, Sansa turns on the heel of her sneaker and heads back out to the gym.

Sansa can’t help it; she’s compelled, drawn to the fluorescent light spilling from the office. Her pink cheer bag slung over her shoulder, she could just be stopping by with an innocuous lie of a question on her way out. She bumps into Taena, swathed in dark blue like a jungle cat, and recognizes her own expression in the other girl’s face, the high flush of her cheeks.

A nervous, sheepish smile is exchanged; they move forward together.

Coach is on her cell phone, back to the window, brows knitted. One finger trails through the curly loops of the old rotary phone on the desk, jerking with spasmodic irritation.

Looking up, she sees them freeze-frame in the doorway, hesitant and skittish as baby deer. Her eyes are hard and stony one second, but then soften just a bit, looking at the two of them. She says something dismissive into the phone.

“Well, come in, then,” she says to them, clicking off the call. That voice, always so cool.

Cersei’s eyes slide up and down as they slip nervously into the office, assessing, always assessing. “Oh, my husband would _love_ you,” she says to Taena, looking at her curvy hips, her sleek dark hair.

Taena’s ready smile sputters.

“Only joking.” Coach sounds so unconvincing when she isn’t trying. She sets her cell on the desk and swivels to see them. “Well. What is it you two want?”

It’s enough, then, to be in her presence. Sansa glances at Taena, feeling dumbly for words.

 

 

Margaery’s text later. **Didn’t need a ride after?**

There isn’t a good response. Sansa deliberates a second too long and is punished by a swift second text, sequined phone buzzing like a caged insect. **So u were with that blonde bitch.**

 

 

“Do you remember the last time you ate solid food?” her half-brother asks pointedly, disdain and bewilderment, looking at her across the wooden trestle table. He means the bowl of sugar-free Jell-O tucked by her elbow, the haphazard electric blue squares. She always makes a point to buy the least appetizing colors.

Sansa pulls her blurred focus from the trigonometry homework fanned out like a map before her. “Shut up, freak,” she snaps, sharp and thin. Her head aches with shallow starburst twinges, but that’s because of the math.

From the kitchen behind them, their mother’s voice raised sharply over paper bags rustling, groceries: “That’s _enough_ , you two.” A hollow warning. She must be tired, as always, those long days spent swathed in unending sterile white legal briefs.

Jon tips back his chair, balancing on two legs. He looks at Sansa critically, studying the member of a strange foreign species.

“I’m amazed you’re even trying to do homework. Since when has that been a priority for you?”

Sometimes she hates Jon, his too-long hair and stupid skinny jeans, his irritating hipster girlfriend. _Do you value yourself, Sansa?_ she’d asked patronizingly, the one time they’d ever been alone. The girlfriend waiting for Jon, judgmental eyes traveling to the sky high hem of Sansa’s cheer skirt when she’d just stepped in the door sweaty, spangled, and jubilant after a home game. _Are you actually happy?_ As if Sansa were nothing more than the cheer uniform she was wearing. And as if Sansa would ever listen to some granola looking bitch with a frizzy mop of hair and a nose ring, especially one who looked at her like _that_. “Why don’t you leave?” she says sweetly to her brother, raising her eyes to counter his smirk.

“You sure you’ll be all right with all that math, princess?” he shoots back, pulling his hand through his hair.

“Go fuck yourself,” she says, soft and low, voice dripping with spite.

Jon stands up, a beanpole in head to toe black. “Gladly,” he quips, shoving in his chair with a loud sound. He lopes across the family room and disappears, the last of him his black high-tops and the crude hand gesture he throws at her.

Their mother comes out, drawn by the clanking chair, arms laden with dry goods. “What was that all about?” she says loudly. She tries to catch Sansa’s eye. Sansa mumbles something noncommittal and drops her head, eyes on her isosceles triangles.

Catelyn sighs. She snags the bowl of neon squares with her free hand, eying it with a look of disappointment and weariness.

“Don’t you know how bad this sugarfree crap is for you, Sansa? How many times have I told you that?” She’s always so fed up, she’s had it up to _here_. “Dinner is soon. Are you hungry? Sansa, hello! I’m speaking to you!”

Sansa doesn’t say anything. She slowly, deliberately measures an angle, sliding the cheap plastic protractor over the inked lines.

She stopped listening to her mother a long time ago.

 

 

“What were you up to last night?” Marg says too brightly in homeroom, tucking herself into her desk and flicking the cap off of her pen. Sansa is bent over her backpack but can sense, through the curtain of her hair, the sharpness of Marg’s eyes, pinpointed on her.

“I, um, was busy.” Sansa avoids looking her way.

“I called you.”

“I didn’t have my phone.”

“You’re such a fucking bad liar,” Margaery says sharply. “You always have your phone. You were with her, weren’t you,” she adds sullenly, turning away.

 

 

They are getting better, sharper. At practice, Coach drills them relentlessly, remorselessly. She forces them to do sprints, squat jumps, until they’re all wheezing and Alla throws up in the corner of the gym. But the results come in, and they feel as measurable as a math score. They are excellent.

Marg, the deposed queen, sits high in the bleachers, never deigning to participate. She snaps her gum, sometimes shouts loud abuse. Mostly, though, she watches in calculated silence. After the first such practice, Cersei gave up lecturing her and just ignored her. Any other girl might have gotten kicked off the team; but Coach seems to just be ignoring the issue.

Marg doesn’t need to practice, anyway. She was always the best, could do the hardest stunts with natural, easy grace. Her captaincy had been marked by her light, as if she were the sun and the rest of them merely in her orbit.

 

 

After all that, Sansa wants to talk to Coach. The door is ajar. She steps up shyly, as always, waiting for her cue, waiting to be invited in.

Something’s different. It sounds different, wrong. One more step, blood thrumming in her ears. Her eye goes instinctually to the crack in the door, golden light spilling through.

She sees the press of bodies, the intimate sounds of an embrace, Coach’s ankles hooked around somebody’s back. Golden hair.

There’s a quiet step behind her. She turns and it’s Margaery, eyes keen with interest, eager suspicion. Something drops in Sansa’s stomach and she knows, then, this will come to no good end.

She tries to step back, quietly, closing her ears to the sounds from the office before them, but Margaery is behind her, pressing too close for personal space. She does that all the time, has always done that, nearly suffocating with proximity.

Sansa is frozen. Margaery darts forward, pushes the door open farther.

The two figures inside the room spring apart, an interrupted tableau. Coach is naked to the waist, face losing its expression of freedom and release. And the man, the man with her, it’s that blonde army recruiter, so handsome that it hurts. Sansa hadn’t realized at the time that he looked uncannily like Coach, almost as though they were—

Margaery whips around, her mouth an O of delighted shock.

Sansa can’t do anything but run, and she does, she _does_. They’re halfway down a hallway floors away when her fight catches up to her flight and she can think again, slowing to a walk, heart thudding in her chest.

She reaches out and catches Margaery by the hand, arm outstretched in her gleeful turn. Sansa can feel the excitement in her, the tension. “Marg, we can’t tell anybody,” Sansa says, knowing with a rush that it’s the truth.

“Are you crazy?” Margaery is alight, electric, a spark plug. “It’s disgusting, it’s wrong. We have to tell somebody. Or everybody.”

“Marg, _no_ ,” Sansa pulls her closer. “Don’t you understand? This could be bad. Really bad.” She’s trying to share the urgency she feels, wants to _push_ it into Marg if there’s no other way. And there’s no way Marg can be as completely ferocious as she seems. Sansa concentrates and there it is, a trace of fear, right there, just a frisson. Margaery yanks her hand away.

“I’ll do what I want,” she says.

 

 

Coach texts Sansa sixteen times before Sansa agrees to meet her for coffee around the corner from her house, 7 am before school the next day.

Coach is wearing jeans and a pink Nike sweater, clean and pristine, her golden hair swept off her face in a high ponytail. It still shocks Sansa to see her, like a zap of clarity. Coach buys them two green tea lattes, no sugar, and they sit in the front seats of her white SUV.

She’s nervous, Coach is, her usual hard impenetrableness interrupted by nervous tics. It’s astonishing, really; Sansa fidgets around the cold feeling in her stomach, unable to say anything until they are in the locked car, staring at their hands.

Coach seems almost as lost for words as she is, before finally, haltingly: “Sansa, I know you can understand. You, of all people, can understand.”

She goes on, then, long urgent sentences, love and how it’s real, pressing, pressing on Sansa to get it.

Sansa’s mouth is dry. She _wants_ to understand, wants to comprehend for Coach, but there’s just—“Coach,” she blurts, tongue reluctant like ashes, “—is that man—is he your _brother_?” Those faces, as alike as reflections in a mirror, how could it be anybody else?

It hurts Sansa to protest, “But—” She thinks of Jon with his dark curls, Robb away at law school. _Brother_. How—

“It’s just between me and him,” Cersei says, almost fevered. She twists in her seat, eyes pressing and rigid and desperate. “We aren’t hurting anybody, Sansa. Do you see that?”

In a small voice, Sansa says, “Yes.” And she means it, she really does. What she saw is burned into her mind, a pinhole image, unfathomable. But Coach inviting her into this dark, twisted, bloody little secret, granting her with this understanding—it eases the twisted feeling in her stomach, just a little. “But there’s—Margaery.”

Coach sags slightly. “Well.” She looks out across the gray parking lot, drizzling in cold rain. “There’s got to be something she wants, isn’t there.”

 

 

Sansa has just sat down in fifth period when Margaery swarms in, bouncy brown ponytail and rose perfume filling Sansa’s senses. She drops into the neighboring chair, lipgloss mouth curled with a secret, eyes all lit up.

“Miss Tyrell,” says the history teacher drily.

 _Just two minutes_ , Margaery mouths with a stagey smile, lips puckering pink and sticky around her over-pronounced words. It makes Sansa feel slightly sick to see how quickly the teacher smiles and lets her stay. Marg has got them all under her thumb.

“Guess what I found out,” she says, busily.

 

  

Marg’s mouth twists tight.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is more of a style exercise than anything else. Very unfinished. 
> 
> Originally written in 2013, inspired by [this](http://roseroadkingsroad.tumblr.com/post/44081215441/thestarkinwinterfell-sansa-and-margaery-are) post.


	4. God give me strength to keep on walking (OINTB AU; Sansa/Margaery, Sansa/Jon)

##  **God give me strength to keep on walking**

###  **an _Orange is the New Black _AU__**

 

 

Once upon a time Sansa was a good girl, but those days were long gone. A good girl wouldn’t be fucking her ex-girlfriend in a prison toilet stall during lunch hours, would she? Especially not if she had a boyfriend waiting on the outside, a family that desperately needed their dual income to survive, and a thousand other reasons to say no.

Especially not if her boyfriend was the man she’d considered her half-brother for years growing up, and their “kids” were actually her siblings. Yeah. It was complicated.

“You taste so _good_ ,” Margaery groaned, dirty talking the way she’d always been so good at doing.

“Jesus Christ I’m gonna come,” Sansa hissed, head tipped back against the wall. “I’m gonna—”

“Show, don’t tell,” Margaery said in a low purr, lifting her face from between Sansa’s legs. Her mouth gleamed wet and shiny, and her brown eyes were liquid with satisfaction.

Fucking Margaery. With her it was always about the sex—she could do it anywhere, just like Sansa remembered. Whereas Sansa had vestiges of Catholic guilt whenever she did something bad, no matter how long it’d been since she learned that you had to be bad sometimes, unless you _wanted_ to lose.

Margaery lifted herself up and kissed Sansa hard on the mouth. She tasted of tangy salt and it was so deliciously dirty that it sent an instant tremor down Sansa’s spine. “That was good, babe, wasn’t it?”

And Sansa had to admit that it was. “Yeah,” she said, breathlessly, hitching up her regulation granny panties as she leaned against the grimy bathroom wall. She flashed Margaery a smile. She was so far gone, this was so fucked. “It was great.”

 

 

 

After she called Jon on one of the telephones. Her first week inside she’d avoided the crying ladies who used the phones, finding them a little ridiculous, but now she was one of them. She accepted a tissue from the sweet tiny Puerto Rican lady next to her and dabbed at her eyes the moment she heard Jon’s familiar voice come on the line. “Hey, Sans. How’s the pen?”

“Hi, Jon.” She blinked back tears, smiling as he rambled on, telling her what Arya and Rickon and Bran were up to.

Jon had always made her feel so safe. But now, the only emotion he inspired in her was pure guilt.

 

 

 

Right from the start, things with Margaery were messy. 

Sansa was still with her boyfriend when Margaery started fucking him—but Sansa and Margaery had something going way before that, so it wasn’t like anyone came out looking like an angel. It was all part of the plan, Margaery said when Sansa found out. Of course, she hadn’t _told_ Sansa before she started up with Joffrey. Something about the way Margaery’s mind worked had convinced her that was a good idea.

“So, what, you’re into guys now?” Sansa hissed, holding up the incriminating pair of boxer shorts she’d found in Margaery’s luggage. To add insult to injury, she recognized the exact pair. Margaery, freshly tanned from a weekend in the South of France, rolled her eyes as she lounged against the doorframe of their bedroom.

“No, are you?”

Sansa exploded. _My ex_ and _how could you fucking cheat on me_ and _the drugs were one thing and_ —

“Baby, please, it’s just sex,” Margaery said, her expression as sultry as a Southern afternoon and smooth as honeyed silk. “Don’t you know that I’m only into you? I’m _doing_ this for you. And to take down the Lannisters for what they did to your family, babe. I would never hurt you on purpose.”

In hindsight, what she meant was probably closer to “I would never hurt you without a good reason.” But they say hindsight is 20/20, so…

Margaery stepped forward and wrapped an arm around Sansa’s waist, pulling her close. After making a show of initial resistance, Sansa let Margaery kiss her. She didn’t even protest very hard.

She knew Margaery loved her best of all.

Maybe that explained Sansa’s reaction when, shortly after they met, Margaery took Sansa to the most expensive restaurant in town and told Sansa matter-of-factly over dessert that she wasn’t just a financial analyst. She was also the standing heir to her grandmother’s drug business. Correction: the multi-million dollar drug empire her grandmother had started and expertly run for the past twenty years.

“She had cancer,” Margaery explained, “so she started growing pot for the pain. Then she started selling it. Things just sort of developed from there.”

Sansa just stared at her.

“Now we’ve gone international. My family needs me to do this, darling. I can’t say no.”

Sansa nodded finally. “Okay.”

After that she didn’t ask questions; she just went along for the ride—Brussels, Bali, Tokyo, Rio, wherever Margaery’s business took them. It was exciting. She liked being the trophy girlfriend when she was doing it for Margaery. The reassurance of Margaery’s smile and the comforting weight of her arm around Sansa’s waist were all Sansa wanted after the implosion of the world as she’d known it (dead father, mother, brother; family reputation shattered, money gone, everything she’d ever known, _gone_ ). For a long time, it was enough.

Plus, she was only eighteen. One might say Margaery had come at a critical period in Sansa’s life. One might rationalize, years later in a prison bathroom, that this was exactly why Margaery always felt so inevitable to her.

 

 

 

Ten years prior, the fateful phone was ringing loudly in the 4 a.m. silence of their Paris hotel room. 

Blinking in and out of sleep, Sansa opened her eyes.The gray light of the room made it hard to see Margaery hunched over the phone, speaking quietly into it. “All right. Okay. _Merci_.” 

Margaery turned around. All color had drained from her face and the effect was almost frightening. “It’s my grandmother,” she said. “She… She died.”

Sansa got to her feet. “I’m so sorry, baby,” she said softly, sitting down next to Margaery and rubbing Margaery’s back up and down. But every muscle in her body felt tensed.

“I have to go back for the funeral, I have to call Loras, have to organize the…” Margaery’s words trailed off as she shook her head repeatedly.

Sansa couldn’t stay quiet. “Margaery, I have to go.” She swallowed. “Home. I need to go home. I have to leave.”

Margaery stared at her, not comprehending. Her eyes were dull and glassy. “But I need you.”

The familiar rawness of that look, the open grief, was terrifying. Sansa knew it too well. That, on top of the drugs, on top of the fact that Arya had called her from a pay phone last night and hung up after two minutes of near silence—it was too much. She had to get out.

It was never supposed to be like this. Margaery was meant to be the light in her life: a fun, dazzling interloper. Margaery had plucked Sansa out of misery and set Sansa on this world tour of adventure. Sansa wasn’t prepared for anything more. She couldn’t go through that again.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “But I have to leave.”

 

 

  

She searched all over the prison grounds and finally found Margaery on the stage of the chapel, bent over some woodwork. Standing in the aisle, Sansa cleared her throat. “Margaery, I can’t do this any more.”

Margaery turned and stood up, staring at her without moving.

“I choose him,” Sansa said calmly. “I choose Jon.”

Seconds stretched into minutes of silence. “Fine,” said Margaery at last, cold as stone. She folded her arms across her chest. “If that’s your choice. Just don’t ever try to talk to me again.”

“You know what?” Sansa walked forward through the pews, propelled by cold anger that suddenly broke over her like a wave. “Don’t have that attitude with me. Why the hell do you think I’m in here in the first place, Margaery? I have a _felony_ conviction because of you. I had a life out there, and you ruined it.”

Margaery’s face was cool. “You knew exactly what you were doing with me.”

“I was a kid,” Sansa spat.

“You knew,” Margaery repeated, “exactly what you were doing with me.”

Her voice quavered slightly on the last few words. That hesitation twisted into Sansa like a knife, and suddenly she was 19 again, full of doubt and a love she thought she could leave behind her in a foreign country like a piece of discarded lingerie. But she simply hadn’t realized how hard Margaery (and her drug empire) would be to shake.

“I thought it would be forever,” Sansa said finally. She swallowed hard, tears welling in her throat and causing a painful lump. “I thought—we would be.”

As if sensing her opening, Margaery approached. She walked slowly down the chapel steps until she stood directly before Sansa. Her eyes were burning.

“Say there’s been no one since me,” Margaery ordered, her tone deliberate and measured.

Sansa meant to explain about Jon, that after six years together they were _engaged_ , but when she opened her mouth what came out was, “There’s been no one since you.”

“I know what happened,” Margaery whispered, taking a step forward. She was fully in Sansa’s space now, but Sansa didn’t move. Margaery’s warm breath coiled around her neck. “You thought that after me there wouldn’t be any more girls, so you were just going be good and date boys and play it safe with that cousin of yours. But if you think that’s any more messed up than what we had… Sansa, you’re so wrong. I know what you really want.”

What _had_ Sansa been afraid of? That she would end up like this, doubly punished: in jail, and more deeply in love with Margaery than she knew how to manage?

With a strong rush of greed she slid forward and kissed Margaery like she wanted to eat her alive, lips wet and pressed against Margaery’s lips. She slipped both hands under the stiff khaki of Margaery’s uniform and touched Margaery everywhere— _everywhere_.

When she pulled away Margaery was still writhing under Sansa’s touch, curving into it, body like a compressed spring. She was hot, alive. Sansa’s body felt light, and she was so turned on she could hardly move without needing something more.

“God, I missed you, Sans,” Margaery breathed, and the look on her face was so agonizingly soft that Sansa couldn’t look. She stared at the V of Margaery’s collarbone.

With every milligram of strength she had, Sansa made herself remember Jon, and her siblings. “I know, Margaery. I missed you too. But it’s not just about me anymore.”

She walked out of the chapel with a buzzing in her head that refused to decide if it was anger or tears.

 

 

 

She always forgot how much she loved Jon’s hands, the sensitive arch of them. The curl of his hair as it brushed his neck. The way he clamped his mouth when he tried to suppress how he was really feeling. 

Sansa sat back in her chair and tried not to watch Jon’s hands. She wanted to reach out and take them, and put them under her shirt so she could see if they would ignite her the same way that Margaery’s lips did. She wanted to put those cool, strong hands over her eyes, so she could block out the fluorescent lights of the visiting room and just stop thinking about everything for a minute.

“Things are going okay. Sam’s been helping out a lot. He comes, babysits. He’s a good cook.”

There was something rubbing away at Sansa’s heart, leaving a raw and ugly sore. “And Bran and Rickon, what’s going on with them?”

“They’re fine. Arya’s still at the community college. I think it’ll stick this time—she’s on course to graduate soon. She’s still with that guy, the mechanic. He’s good people.”

“How are you guys doing with money?”

Jon frowned. “We… it’s okay. Sam’s been helping out a little.”

Sansa’s mouth fell open. “But he’s a grad student.”

Jon smiled wryly. “Well, it’s a little tight. Your income of 12 cents an hour isn’t exactly boosting us into the big leagues.”

“I know.” Sansa’s heart squeezed nervously, like it always did when she thought about going back to nursing school. She’d been in her third year when charges were pressed. She had a hell of a lot of explaining to do when she came back, and what kind of hospital would want to hire a nurse with a felony on her record? “Jon, I—”

Jon reached across the table, folding his hands at the center. “Don’t worry about it, Sans.”

She looked at him, meeting his steady gaze. He looked at her so trustingly. If only he knew what she’d gotten up to in here without him. “It’s going to be okay. I promise.”

She hoped to God he was right.

Margaery entered the visiting room, her hair was pulled back from her face. When she looked up to see Sansa there, she smiled. Sansa's stomach did a familiar twist, and without thinking she smiled back automatically. Inevitably.

 _Because_   _Jon, I am so sorry, but you don’t even know the half of it._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally written in 2013 or 2014, around the first and second seasons of Orange is the New Black when everyone shipped Piper and Alex and lots of bad things hadn't yet happened.
> 
> I first posted this as an original work, then decided to keep it with these other AUs for organizational reasons.
> 
> Title from "Keep on Walking" by Jem. Edited and finished December 2016.


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